Despair's Made a Home
by Kasaihanaa
Summary: The New Ozai Society makes it first move against the Fire Lord. Zuko copes.
1. The Fire Lord

_AN: This is a 3-5-part thing I guess. I'm still working out a few things, which I hope won't take nearly as long as it's been taking with my other fics. Nonetheless, enjoy (: _

* * *

**The Fire Lord**

* * *

His thoughts are a little more blank today then he'd like. The general's lips move, a mechanic open and close, though the sound doesn't seem to ever meet his ears. It's one of those days that the elongated map, carefully painted into the platform on the floor, becomes nothing but a game to clear his boredom.

Zuko traces lines across mountains, through oceans and around locations he's been. Some days it's the trade routes he's gone over dozens of times, or trips he's set to make. Today it's just a painful review of his ventures as an adolescent.

Finally hearing the man's soft blare come to a halt, his eyes flick upward, his eyebrow quirking as he tries to recall anything he's said. Nothing is drawn forward, so he gives up, carving out a sigh, "We'll hear your proposal another time. I'll review whatever I have here—consider this meeting suspended until tomorrow." There's a small bit of hesitation before they all bow, and he slowly raises a hand before walking down the few steps from the throne.

The air feels more brisk than he remembers. Even if it is the the beginning of winter, it takes at least another few weeks before the frigid air fully trickles in. Indifferent to the feeling, he inhales, raising heat in chest, and exhaling, spreading to his extremities, and feeling the flames eager to dispel from his fingertips.

He decides on dinner, and the closer he gets to the commons the more the servants bow and utter their formalities, asking what he'd like, or what he would refuse. He only gives nods, occasionally flicking his gaze down the corridor for his fiance.

He hasn't seen Mai since morning. Ink black strands that shone in the morning light, and a tired smile. The only exchange and farewell for the day, a feather kiss dragging from her lips and down her jaw, then back upward. It's a wonder how she looks so baffling when disheveled, cheeks red, half lidded eyes, rosy parted lips. The feel of them linger on his mouth, and mindlessly he smiles.

He'd like to think the next thing was just a memory as well, just a bad one—and he'd give anything to wake up.

It seems to slither in. Masked by adrenaline, drenched in a dragged out daze. The servants are covering their ears, and he hasn't even noticed his sight's gotten hazy, and his own hearing has been reduced to a nauseating hum. His eyes shut tight with each blink, but every time they open he continues to see doubles. The ringing dies down, and he can make out words, the distorted image of lips moving and yelling for him to give his orders. There's a servant on his left, and a guard on his right, forcing him to his feet, though he can't remember when knelt.

"Wh—"

"Sir, it's the entire north wing."

"Hn—" a sharp inhale and his brow furrows trying piece it together, "…what happened?"

"We're assuming it's another attempt on your life, sir."

"Where's, Mai?" His voice is hoarse, and he tries to figure out directions. North, east, south, west, the ringing continues but he manages. "That's…the rear, my chambers."

"Yes."

Without a word or order he stumbles, his fingers occasionally crashing into the pillars as he finds his balance. Gradually, as his sight and hearing come in, he breaks into a run. The presence is still there, coiling and dancing, etching an anxious pain into his psyche. Grey billows upward, and there's a faint glow down the hall.

He seemed to only be allowed a trembled breath, his fingers refusing to go steady as they swiveled, his arms careful yet frantic and they bend and turn, the flames hardly stifle with his movements. It's difficult, and the darkness pools, clouding gold that is growing with it's moistened glint. The flames dispel wherever his boots land, and he can almost tune out the crash and creak of all the rubble.

Rasped, he calls her name. The coughs breathlessly carved through his own paled lips are his only response, before a pillar cracks and falls, and he can see the maroon of her robes.

It's finally seeped in. Despair's made a home in a tattered mind, clouded by failed suppression, and obscured by fear. Her eyes are glazed over, open—afraid. Blood cakes her skin, and her hair sticks to her face, leaving trails of crimson as the breeze blows them away. It drips, along the stone, along the ornate gold pillars in which she's draped, head down, slightly tilted, where he can see.

Once he sees the burns he remembers he's forgotten to breathe. They swirl, charred and bloody, licking at her skin. His inhale is gasped, and instead he's met with the sting of smoke, it tears at the back of his throat and constricts his lungs as his fingers curl around the debris that cages her. Desperately pulling.

He recalls voices, muffled things, and hands pulling at his robes, the black pools and before he knows it he's in bed, hands rested on his abdomen, watching the workers bustle about the infirmary.

Every blink bring him there and back, clean sheets, then blood stained silk, until he sees his bruised fingers, purple deepening and fading around his knuckles, and fanning out into his palms. He wonders what he should have said that morning—

Goodbye, I love you, be back soon.

"I'm sorry, my lord. Your hands.."

"Nevermind that, where's Mai?"

"Your majesty…"

"Answer me."

"Lady Mai, she—"

"It was an order, answer me!"

His eyes have grown blurred, and the tears quickly stain his cheeks.

It's been weeks, her funeral procession was slow, a crimson and gold coffin carried around the main street, where he followed behind the bearers, head hung low. He refuses to remember much after that.

There's a guard, younger than most, his lip quivers though his face is hidden through his helmet. "My lord, we found the leader…the one who planned the coup…"

Before he can finish his briefing he's already turned on his heel, moments later pressing his hands into the wood of the door. The man is bowed, head bent and pushing hard into the back of his hands as he kneels. Zuko holds his glare with eyes he has yet to meet.

For once, the flames before the throne are lit, and his hands clench as he sits.

"As loyal as you are to my father, I almost thought you wouldn't give me the respect of bowing." Teeth bared, his eyes are reduced to slits, "get up, and explain to me what this New Ozai Society is."

The man rises, and the pallid shade of topaz meets his own. Immediately, his expression contorts, hints of confusion and disbelief. The man before him being none other than the father of the woman he's killed.


	2. The Assassin

_AN: Much shorter, and to be honest the last part will probably be pretty brief too. I wrote this as a after thought really, more so cause I still wasn't quite sure how I wanted to handle Mai's dad. _

* * *

**The Assassin **

* * *

It's nice she thinks, the way the ink stains the paper so smoothly today, the brush doesn't catch in the rivets of the parchment and it doesn't pool at the ends of each character. Three pages, and she gently sets them with the others, signing her name at the bottom and smiling warmly at her handiwork, knowing no one can see.

Mai thinks, one day she'll show him. One day she'll be able to carve out a confident breath and allow herself to be open. Shove the papers she so carefully wrote into his hands, and watch him read. But, the papers fluctuate, contort and bend, and create waves where the low tide is substantially longer lasting than the high. Her smile fades, and she notes the darkness pool behind her irises and spread, seeking solace behind pallid lids.

Eyes closed, head tilted back, she rests her hands on her abdomen and breathes. There's a shuffle just outside the door so she quickly rises, shoving the box of parchment between the crevice of the mattress and the bed frame. Double checking for secrecy she peeks through the door's cracks, seeing no sway of familiar robes, or flash or dark hair or scarred skin. She sighs, perching on the bed and pulling the crimson sheets over her lap for warmth.

She likes to think, that's her favorite thing. His body is always so comforting, when she curls into his chest and finds it's effortless to draw heat. "—lunch." She murmurs quietly to herself with a nod, before leaning back, and falling into the cushion. It's dull, waiting hours on end for him to return, and entertainment is never present. At least not without effort.

She's sure she's asleep. Things had never seemed this lucid. There's a click and a pause, and for a moment the rooms stills—silent.

She remembers the glow. The orange flash, then the quiet, followed by the crack of flame in the distance. Her legs hurt, and she can't seem to breathe a puff of air no matter hard she tries. Her chest tries desperately to expand, and her gaze shifts, seeing the gold of the pillar pressed down on her back. So she pushes, arms bent, trying to slide through the carnage, but the agony sets in and instead she screams.

This morning it was so easy. His weight lightly pressed to her chest, and his lips grazed hers in a silent goodbye. His face blurred through morning bliss, slightly obscured, but pleasant all the same. Mai remembers watching him go, his robes billow down the hall, and she smiles a bit at the thought that after a few years, it's nice to see him with his head held high. After that, she promised herself she'd meet him for lunch, before taking out the paper and ink, laying down stroke after stroke, a rosy blush painting her cheeks.

She remembers. Even though her head hurts, and she feels the blood run trails down her skin, painting her cheeks, and tracing the curve of her bottom lip. She calls out only once, his name falling from her tongue hoarse, as she tries to drown out the sting of the flames against shattered limbs.

He'd be angry if she gave up, and even though her lungs struggle to take in air, her bones reduced to mere rubble, and her vision is fading quickly to black, she puts in a final effort, her hands pressing into the debris, and her teeth bared, but exhaustion wins. Her eyes stay wide. Being alone is second nature, but not like this, for once she wants to admit she's afraid—terrified beyond belief. But quietly, with eyes wide, she watches the flames lick at the wood next to her and quits.

She takes pride in that last breath for trying, even if only for a moment, but the fear betrays her. Almost as a last sentiment she swears she hears her name called as the darkness takes her.


	3. The Nobleman

_AN: The name **Tomiko** was pretty much came up with by me and a few others, which we assumed would be Tom-Tom's real name as well. Writing Uncle Iroh teh next time around is gonna be difficult, I am excited, though scared. _

* * *

**The Nobleman**

* * *

The silence stays. His breath is ragged, and any anger he felt only a moment before had diminished, replaced with a twinge in his gut, and a contortion of the nerves in his chest.

Zuko wanted it back, he wanted his fists clenched and his teeth bared, hostile. Instead, he felt only vulnerable, met with the pale tawny gaze, before the former governor's knees bent, head low, forehead pushed firmly into his palms.

"Get up." He breathes, his voice wavering, "—I told you to get up."

He rises, legs shaking as he lifts his chin once more.

"Do you realize what you've done?"

"I wasn't aware of the causalities, your highness."

"Wasn't aware? Tch."

"Former Governor Tomiko of New Ozai." Zuko says, his eyes fluttering closed, "—so tell me, **why?**"

The nobleman stays silent, his arms shifting just slightly beneath his robes.

"Answer. Now."

He lets out a low growl, "You've ruined this country. You've created a new era, and a false sense of your naive hope, and it's run this nation into the dirt."

"I can see why my father appointed you."

"Because I believed in his ambitions, I—"

"Your views on everything my family has done is just as skewed as his. I'm doing what I can to change things, the way my father saw it, was wrong. And so are you." Zuko sighs.

Tomiko growls, his head finally sitting upright, "This country is in my best interests. You accuse me of treason, when you're of the same sort."

"I'm accusing you of murdering your daughter!"

The silence ensues again, and Zuko bites down on the inside of his cheek, hard. There's anger there, finally. The memories come flooding back. But they're masked by so much pain he can hardly decipher them himself. Every yell or scream, every bit of will it takes to lash out, is kept in wraps, bursting at the seams, anxious.

His eyes close again, and every time, the darkness betrays him, and he can only see the blood. The loose strands, crimson, brushing streaks against alabaster skin.

He opens his eyes quickly then, trying to fight back the sting. "Just, tell me, what you've done—what you were trying…I—"

Zuko's fists clench as he begins to speak.

* * *

Everyone's allowed one weapon, but his plans were set to be immaculate, so he doesn't even see the use. There's a tapestry on the right, former Lord Ozai woven into the thread, a rack on the left, all for the spearheads that accumulated through their growing numbers.

His daughter's informed the Fire Lord, he knows, (much to his dismay) and there's a guard stationed watching their every move, and he thinks he's got the usurper's schedule precisely. Tea in the morning, briefed by his guard, three meetings throughout the day, breaks are taken in the courtyard, and a late dinner. Every step planned, not a hair out of place and Tomiko is sure he can finally live out his wish.

"We leave before nightfall." He begins, lacing his fingers into the sleeves of his robes. "There's a weak point in the west wing. Start there, work around to the rear, he retires to his chambers after dinner."

The society nods, and a few turn their heels preparing the gunpowder.

They leave as the sun sets, bearing cloaks to hide their armor, some with cases of powder disguised as wicker crates.

Before long, they've all scattered, too few in number to be detected, but large enough to carry out their intent. The few in servant's attire, set the crates in various rooms, lining the perimeter of the his chambers, and they're given their orders, and the firebenders are left to the rest.

Despite it being his own premeditated efforts, Tomiko stays just outside the rear gates, using the guard to communicate with the group.

He lets out a sigh, a smirk follows, "On my count…"

Then it flashes.

* * *

It takes a moment, but when his eyes open, Tomiko realizes he'll only be met with the gold, the charred skin and pained grimace in his wake. "—it was for you. It was planned for your death."

Zuko's head only hangs, his fists still clenched, knuckles white. He has him here. Bowing, restricted by walls and ornate pillars. Purely vulnerable. So his hands beg for flame, but mercy plays at his tongue. "If I was half the man you want me to be, I would have you killed," he starts, "—but i'm not."

He hates it. How soft it sounds. How weak. Petulant, he is eager to tear him to shreds, but hesitance is always present, and no matter how hard he tries he can't bring himself to lunge. On the contrary, his muscles are flexed, spine ever so slightly curved, and his boots balanced on the balls of his feet.

There hasn't felt quite this empty, angry, vacant, not in a few years. The feeling is familiar, the hint of guilt, the tainted mindset, and the crippling sense of failure that only coagulates and drowns him the more he attempts to take a moment to breathe.

Then he snaps. The images come in frames, and before he can even process, his hands have clung to the rim of his collar, free hand flickering as the flames ignite.

"You're going to kill me, here?" Tomiko's voice is confident, but his eyes show fear.

Zuko only blinks, unsure how long it took, how he got there. His expression is tiresome, worn, and the agony shows through as the flame goes out. As a last effort to regain his composure, he shoves, watching the older topple, scrambling as he picks himself up from the floor.

"You think I wouldn't like to?" Zuko says.

"You don't have it in you, boy."

The Fire Lord growls then, the resemblance to Ozai's tone putting him on edge. Fingers tremble, before pushing back the loose strands that have fallen from his top-knot and giving them a light tug.

"No. I don't." He breathes softly, "Killing you wouldn't solve anything, it wouldn't bring her back. You've made this mistake, and you can just suffer with the guilt." **Like I am. **

The former governor's brows furrow, eyes averted at the tile.

"You'll go to prison. Live your life there, and until your last day remember what you've done." Zuko begins to turn on his heel, breathing a sigh.

"That's it? As his son I would almost expect more."

"Consider it a gift."

"Your family has grown soft."

Zuko turns back then, teeth bared, "any act of kindness is simply because you're her father, nothing more." His hands have found the neck of his robes again, "—which is more than you deserve in my opinion."

"Then why don't you do it?"

Zuko doesn't answer, instead he lets go in retreat, brow knitted into the creases of charred skin. There's a small wave,and the guards trickle in. "I'm done for today. Just get out of my sight."

Once they've all left, he retreats to his room. As they begin to rebuild, they've relocated him to his old space. Sheets not touched in years, the empty frame at the bed's end, incense stands at its center. The room wreaks of nostalgia as he sinks into the sheets, no matter how large, it still feels oblong and unwelcome, as it's always been. Sleeping doesn't come easy. Only a fitful toss and turn, and the occasional gasped out breath when he does finally dose.

The servants seem to hover, in an out, replacing tea cups that have grown cold, asking what he needs, before being waved off and dismissed shortly after. Until one, russet haired, eyes never quite meeting his gaze comes, and she bows, always quick to leave. It isn't what he'd prefer but before her slippers cross the threshold he sits upright, a hand weaving into his hair.

"Have someone send for my uncle." He mutters.

She turns, seeing how his eyes have darkened in a matter of days, "Right away, your majesty."

Zuko can never quite say the words. How much he needs him, and just how much he's terrified of that admittance. That feeling of sinking is set to reappear, and he remembers how it had once become so unbearable he couldn't bring himself to move. This seems to be his only option, and he knows things are different now. Allowing himself to fall back and be broken as before, would be subjecting himself to too many things. The anger, the pain, the rage, they're all already there, just no one can see.

For days there's no recollection of sleeping when they wake him. They attempt to bring him tea and pastries in the morning, but he gives polite refusal, and hurries too quickly to start the day. Layering robes and cloaks, and sinking into his same boots, all robotic, mindless, and he doesn't speak a sound.

A lower member of the court slips in, and Zuko almost want to usher him out and tell him how useless he is, "I'm sorry to disturb you, Fire Lord."

Instead, he only jumps, before burying his face in hands and offering a nod.

"Most of the documents have been lost in the fire, what do you suggest?"

"Reschedule."

"Sir? I'm afraid I don't follow.."

Zuko sighs, "Has my uncle arrived, yet?"

"His ship is due to port this afternoon."

"Then we'll talk about the documents after that."

"You must understand—"

"I understand, and I meant what I said. I don't want to worry over this right now." He adds, sending him out quickly.

They meet in the courtyard, and Zuko quietly flicks bits of bread into the pond. As the elder walks, a branch snaps, and Zuko flinches.

Uncle is first to speak, "I thought I might find you here when I arrived."

"What gave you the hint?"

"Despite what you may think, I have grown familiar with many of your habits, my nephew."

"I met with nobleman Tomiko, a few days ago."

"Ah, I'm sure he appreciates the condolence."

Zuko shifts, flicking his gaze up to meet his, and he cries trying to explain through broken sentences and puffed out phrases. Uncle stops him midway through, a hand carefully placed on his shoulder, "come, speaking here has done you no good. We'll talk over tea."


	4. The Lotus

**AN:**_ I wanted Uncle Iroh to play a much bigger part, but he's so complicated to write, and I felt I couldn't do him any justice. I also apologize immensely for typos. I revise and always miss a few by accident, ugh. _

_The lotus flower represents one symbol of fortune in Buddhism. The second meaning, which is related to the first is purification. It resembles the purifying of the spirit which is born into murkiness. The third meaning refers to faithfulness. Those who are working to rise above the muddy waters will need to be faithful followers._

* * *

**The Lotus**

* * *

"That's three times." Zuko mutters, moving his last Pai Sho tile off to the side. The game seems endless, but he needs distractions so he doesn't complain.

It's been a month, and the days are spent routinely. Breakfast is brought in, picked at, and quietly left on the end of the bed as he starts his day. Uncle Iroh attends meetings, sitting at his right hand, always watching closely and offering suggestions when Zuko comes up short.

Then, they end their days here, bowls of rice empty, or in Zuko's case hardly touched, and Uncle always coaxes him into a few games of Pai Sho.

Iroh laughs, clearing all the tiles from the board, "you have improved."

"But I still lose every time."

"Victory is not important. What is important is your effort, and your continuous will to play the game."

Zuko sighed, pushing himself up from the table and giving his uncle a small bow, "I think my will, is a little tired today.."

He only sees her when he sleeps. Phantom like in existence, she always fades-withers away with every dosing breath. It's never enough,it never lasts, and he growls every time he wakes. It's pathetic. Such a pensive existence, where she only lives between this world and next, but never the one he wants or needs.

_I'm sorry, I'm so sorry._

They came they went, they never stayed. There was never a tangible reason to. He was a mistake, a regret, and they should run just as they came. Saved themselves the guilt and pain. But instead, Mai smiles, that warm smile only he can see. And he stands reaching but never able to touch. Until she dies, again in more ways than one.

Iroh watches his nephew, checking in every few hours, and dabbing away the moisture of cold sweats. His fingers twitch and he groans, and so the elder sits vigil at his side. "You're going to get dehydrated."

"I'm beginning to think it's just gonna stay that way, to be honest," Zuko adds, pushing himself upright. There's a small silence between them as Zuko balls up the ends of the sheets. A breathy sigh, and a small huff and he lets himself fall back into the cushion.

Before the room felt vast, the doors were too far, and the emptiness left him drowning. Instead, this time it was too small, constricting, and he felt he could hardly move between the sheets. The golden carvings of the canopy seemed to have sunk, had they fallen any further they might have crushed his chest, not that it without it, it was any easier to take in air.

They stay like that, before Iroh takes his plate, handing it off the first intruder who doesn't even receive a passing glance from the Fire Lord, aside from a furrowed brow and a vacant stare. She leaves, and the elder carves out a sigh, before always feigning a smile, "we should get the day started. It will be beautiful out, I'm sure."

Zuko only burrows further into the covers.

"There's a light breeze, but it's nice. It would do you well," Iroh adds.

Zuko was gone. Absent among most, and very nearly to himself. He had ruined everything and everyone, he was almost entirely sure two people had died in that fire. He doesn't sleep like he wants to, he doesn't eat, this is a tepid existence, and he lacks all motive, all need to exist. Instead, every movement is taken in breaths, and he nearly hisses as the sheets are pulled. He is child-like in demeanor though he doesn't seem to care.

Three hours later, Iroh has finally coaxed him from bed, tossed the scarlet layers of robes behind the changing panels and waits. When he comes out, he's still askew, with top knot tilted to the side, and the points of his shoulder pads are crinkled and turned down. The older smooths a few wrinkles, and sends Zuko back and forth after a few tries to fix his hair.

The meetings drag on into the night. There's words that go through one ear, then instantaneously out of the other end. He says a few incomprehensible responses here and there, which Uncle is quick to correct.

A general speaks up, raising his hand and Zuko offers a nod to proceed, "we haven't negotiated trade routes or even discussed the treaties with the Earth King in weeks. What exactly do you plan to do?"

"They're suspended until the rear wing is repaired."

"Pardon my intrusion, but they need to be addressed now…"

"The documents were lost in the fire, until everything is replaced, we can't possibly expect to-"

"You're making excuses, your highness."

Zuko growls, and Iroh is quick to intercept, "General Xun, you must understand, my nephew is still working through everything that has happened in the last month. If given time, i'm sure we can all find the resolutions we seek."

Zuko feels small. Scolded like a child, and strung up by thread if only to be held from destroying anything further. They go over Kuei's current draft, and seek to make any ground on resolving what was lost. The hours drag out, and his eyes are almost always averted at the map. Tracing mountains, and again, the places he's been, shores and borderlines, and before long he closes his eyes and starts to feel sick.

The last person to pipe up ceases to speak, and before anyone else can rise, he lifts a hand to dismiss them. His steps are quick, clumsy and less fluid, and before his uncle can say a word, he turns a corner and attempts to stay hidden.

Zuko remembers this clearly. The twinge in his gut, the aching that arises in his chest, and curves back and down. It comes from absence, and the solitude that he had learned to welcome. From the metal of his ship's hull, the Earth Kingdom's heat, to the room always too extended. He hates it, he hates how it makes him weak. Quietly he's brought to his knees, and he can feel his eyes begin to sting. He's been trying for weeks not to cry, not shed a single tear, because fragility is not a characteristic he can stand to bare. But he gives up, running his hands several times through his hair and mourns with teeth clenched as images dance. Flames flicker and alabaster skin is painted red with blood, and so he tugs ink black strands as they grow vivid and slowly, much too slowly, fade.

For hours he seems to go blank. Sleep is hindered by a devoid stare, and only after turning over for hours finally the details of the room fade.

There's a few moments as he blinks. Scarlet robes come into view, and a small smile, onyx strands, and pointed features, eyes shining a familiar shade of pallid gold. She cups his cheek, and the smile is maintained-one he does not return.

"Stop, please." Mai sighs, wiping a few stray tears from his lash line.

He didn't even realize it, until it was said. His eyes are pink, and his nose is rosy, so he bites his lip.

"Sit with me?" Her hands slip into his as he leads, and with every step, wood panels form beneath his shoes. There's water, light and opaque with a milky blue hue, and lotus blossoms litter the edges. Mai finds a spot in the middle, and pulls him down, seating them back to back. "It's beautiful isn't it?"

Zuko says nothing, only leaning and pushing their heads together.

"I've always had this idea of being a lotus." She starts, sighing.

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing." There's a huff, and he almost mistakes it for a laugh, "but, maybe they'd be proud then."

They sit like that for a while, and Mai slumps down, resting her head between his shoulder blades. Zuko likes the weight, it's whole and familiar-comfortable.

He's first to speak, his sigh wavering against the silence, "I'm proud, but this hurts so much I'm not sure I can handle it."

"You're not."

Zuko's brow furrows.

"You're angry with me, at both of us. Angry because I left, and angry with yourself because there's nothing you can do to change it."

He blinks and and she's curled into his chest, so he bends brushes his lips lightly against her hair, "do I make it that obvious?"

"You've never been that hard to read." She hums, dragging her hand down his chest, and running her thumb around the curve of his ribs. "-I'm angry you're doing this to yourself.

"I didn't mean to," Zuko mumbles.

"It would hurt me to know about it all."

"I'll get better."

At that she looks up and smiles, and he blinks again, leaving his arms empty, before he feels her weight against his back once more. They sit in silence again, and she hums, a hollow tune, a broken lullaby only she knows. And he listens, closing his eyes until she speaks.

"I love you."

"I love you, too," he breathes.

"Promise me something." Mai says, pressing back further and causing him to lean forward a bit.

"Hm?"

"In this life or the next. Don't you dare give up. I know that's not you."

"What do you mean?"

"You've been through worse than this. And I tried so hard, but knowing you're-guilty, is hurting me more than you know. Please, don't make whatever I tried to give, go to waste. No matter how little it was, and no matter how much it hurt."

Zuko looks down, fumbling with the hem of his tunic, "I promise. I promise i'll do what I can, to make things better. To make me better."

Mai smiles, and turns, pressing a light kiss to the nape of his neck, "I keep my promise too. I promised i'd trust you, and i'd be myself. I think i've done it."

Zuko quirks a brow, quickly twisting around and meeting her gaze, before pressing his lips to hers hard. "What?"

There's a soft hum that escapes her lips, accented by a smile, and before long her weight fades, and he blinks, left with nothing but petals.


End file.
